whether it works out or not (i'll follow you with my heart)
by JannP
Summary: The silence after Moloch falls, as Henry turns to look at him with vulnerable eyes- it changes everything. Him. Their world. Possibly their story. Small character-based insights and reactions immediately following 2X10 Magnum Opus. You must watch the episode first. Not ship-focused.


**A/N: It's been a while since I completed anything in this fandom because the show does a great job filling in the blanks and is so fast paced I can't keep up. Now that we have a break... things happen. I hope they happen well and you enjoy. I do have a few ideas where I think the back half of the season is going and, should time allow, I may write them out eventually in conjunction with this. Thank you if you read. Thank you two times if you read and review. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sleepy Hollow, I just own my unhealthy attachment to it. I also don't own "The Precipice" by Classic Crime, which is the song that both inspired and titled this one shot.**

* * *

><p><strong>whether it works out or not, (I'll follow you with my heart)<strong>

There are certain sights in life one can never prepare themselves to see. Once seen, they can't be unseen. Once felt or experienced, they become an indelible part of the structure of one's very soul. He's mistaken a few things for such landmark events – witnessing the birth of a nation, for example. It seemed huge, but missing the birth of his son now looms impossibly larger. It's an experience he can never reclaim, one he can never allow to change him although he thinks sometimes, if he were a wishing man, he would wish for it. Dying on a battlefield seems obvious as a line of demarcation—that is, until he experienced being resurrected in a cave. There are quieter moments, he's learned, that change his makeup more obviously than and just as surely as those big ones. That's where the mistake lies. He assumed it had to be something large, overwhelming in order to change him.

The silence after Moloch falls, as Henry turns to look at him with vulnerable eyes—it changes _everything._

Him. Them. Their world. Possibly their story.

It's something hugely small and ordinary.

It wasn't the killing of a demon hell spat out onto Earth. It was the heartbeat afterward. It may be true doing much isn't feasible since he's literally rooted to a tree. So is Abbie. Miss Jenny. So is Katrina. Beyond that, though, he has _no_ idea what to do. All he can do, for several large and small reasons, is look back, stare. He cannot speak, he cannot utter a noise. He cannot move.

The only thing he can do is _believe_.

Then fall.

(Because the roots release him when Henry bids it so.)

It's more of a stumble, though, and one thing he cannot do is remove his eyes from Henry's, even as he catches himself back on the dirt.

_We actually have the same eyes_, he thinks, and it's never been clearer than it is in the moment.

He's seen _his_ eyes obsidian, obedient, filled with rage and hate – not because they were in his head. He has a _son_. A son who is actually older than him, if physical bodies were the only part of the tale. He has a son he's never known outside of purgatorial prison. They've exchanged harsh, adult words on more than one occasion. Henry has made threats, terrible promises, and he's done despicable things as a minion of darkness.

Freedom looks good on him and in those impossibly large, shared eyes. The question, though, is what he – more as Jeremy than Henry – will do with such agency. Their interpersonal issues are far more complicated than a well-matched glance.

Though the moment is divisive, it recalls a smaller moment that felt huge in its time. When Ichabod first enlisted, his father had been quietly proud. They were British, and he's heard a modern saying about a 'stiff upper lip' that seems very fitting. There was no smile, no hug or expression of outward pride. It only shone from his father's eyes and that had been enough – it had been everything. When he had turned, supporting the Revolutionary cause instead, his father had a very different look in his eyes. He was also much louder, renouncing his son completely and shunning him.

That still stands as a terrible 'moment when everything was changed', and comes to the forefront as Ichabod Crane stares for the first time at his son.

_His son. Jeremy. Not Henry, the servant of Moloch and the erstwhile Horseman of War. Or is he? _

Finally, he bends his lips into a small smile. It's genuine, though, reaching his eyes—their eyes. He tilts his head, finally closing his eyes as he nods at his son. He has no idea how to be a father, but if Jeremy will allow it, he will try. He can't be stiff upper lip and strong, hateful words. Not with this boy who just, you know, routed the ultimate demon back to Hell.

Not with his _son_.

…who is standing there with an all-powerful sword in his hands, one that he can apparently wield at no cost to himself. Crane doesn't know what to make of it. Although he is pleased with the current choices made, obviously, his mind is a battlefield of emotion and fatigue. Despite his smile being met with an equally small and hesitant one, he recognizes this as a beginning only. It isn't a resolution. There is much to be told in this story.

Henry—_or Jeremy_, he thinks—leaves without releasing his mother, Lieutenant Mills, or Miss Jenny. All Crane can do is watch him go, but for the first time as he does, he has hope. It's measured hope, guarded and careful, but it's there nonetheless. This wasn't the plan, but for once it's a very pleasant detour. Perhaps tomorrow they'll figure out another one, forge a new path… make the most of this moment by taking tentative steps toward all the unknown waiting for them. There are many miles to go.

* * *

><p>Katrina is rational, grounded generally, and she knows it makes no sense whatsoever. She shouldn't be able to feel her heart breaking as she watches the two men – two of the most important men in her existence – staring at one another uncertainly, large emotions and transfers of information in small expressions. She's believed her heart broken before, many times, as she watched her husband die, fled from her son for his protection, and in each small moment since when Ichabod's doubts were weighing down his beautiful eyes. He used to look at her with tenderness, awe, and <em>love<em>. Now she's uncertain whether she wants to examine too closely. His innocence is gone, the tenderness replaced with a new bitterness or hardness, and the love is overruled by confusion.

She feels all those things, the ones he used to radiate toward her, in the gaze he shares with their son in the long heartbreak after he called out. She's never heard his voice so desperate, so strong, so sure of what he was willing to give up as he called out, offering his life in place of hers with no indecision. He's always been a bit of a reluctant hero; not that he's cowardly or disloyal or even flinching. He resolves himself to what needs be done and doesn't hesitate to do it at the exact right moment, always. He remains steadfast and humble always. She's loved and hated his sense of duty, his loyalty and clarity of purpose, in equal measure. Today, though, it breaks her heart. His leap of faith paid off, the risk she asked him to take by believing in their son, but she doesn't fully understand the cost and fears she will not for some time to come. Hearing him, voice breaking and eyes dark, saying they should focus on their task and not their marriage broke her heart. She cannot understand his rationale when the beginning of it was so broken.

The way he looks carefully at his own hands, and only his own hands, untangling and breaking as he frees her, says much more than even those exchanges.

Their faith was proven today. Her steady insistence their son was inside _Henry_ somewhere, waiting for them to champion _him_ over a cause or their own desires for once, paid its dividends.

It still feels like a loss. It feels like her heart is breaking. He won't meet her eyes. What she can see of his look tired, weary, far beyond his physical years as he is, but he's guarded. He's looking down.

"My love…"

Instead of looking at her when she speaks, as he always would have, he closes his eyes. He keeps his head down, his lips pressed together. The shake of his head is nearly imperceptible, but she feels it all the same.

It feels like giving up, a concept as foreign to her as it should be.

Perhaps the light of day will change it, or maybe time. She knows too well, though, how stubborn her husband—fellow soldier, comrade, the other cold words he'd leveled at her—can be. The light would have to be blinding, the time substantial. Yes, it's possible, and she'll hope for that. She can be stubborn, too.

She wishes she had enough time to explain. Yes, she cares for Abraham as the person he once was. She may have an amulet that allows her to see someone's humanity, even if they are missing their head. It's a ridiculous notion, but a useful tool. It is not the only reason she believes some trace of the man she shared affection with still exists. Genuinely, she believes now neither Jeremy nor Abraham meant her harm. They may have cast themselves in some dark roles, but they are not monsters—and not just because her necklace shows her as much. She's more of a realist than a tireless optimist, but she sees good in everyone except Moloch. In Abraham, she sees the heartbroken man, desperately fighting the inadequacy of feeling second best and turning it toward a negative path. She sees someone she can help, possibly change. Yes, she's been a spy—but not without sympathy and seeing the possibility of earning Abraham's loyalty to her side. _Their_ side.

She wants to save her former intended _and_ her son. Is that so much to ask?

The cost is great, though. The sword guaranteed a soul for a soul and, though it seems a bit arrogant to apply things like her own existence to a warning regarding the end of the entire world, she can't help it. They have secured Henry's—Jeremy's—loyalties.

In the process, she's lost Ichabod's.

One for the other. Soul for soul, just in a more personal sense.

She just wants to explain, but words won't come for her and he doesn't try. He does right by her as she knows he always will, freeing her with sure, gentle hands. His hands don't touch her, though, his eyes check her for injury but don't meet hers. Every bit of it – the saving, the reassurance, the avoidance—is intentional.

He does not do things he does not mean.

He kisses her cheek instead of her lips and then moves to free Jenny from her binding.

* * *

><p>Frank Irving is one casualty too many tonight, she knows. They agree to do these things as a team, a group, and it's the first time she's really had that. Family. The feeling someone has her back.<p>

She doesn't want it to get _smaller_. It's already a pretty rag-tag assembly as it is.

She wants to throw up when events turn so fast she can hardly keep up. Hawley is back with the headless demon, Abbie is shot, Frank is _dead_, and then _take me instead_.

They've all said it. He just found his voice at the most critical moment, the normally tame gentleman. He isn't soft-spoken, exactly. He's stubborn and challenging, smart, a wicked know-I'm-right gleam in his clear eyes, and a _really_ wicked sense of duty and honor in an age when those two things are gone.

_Not_ him. Her head is begging, but the words won't come forward. These evil monsters seem to understand their thoughts and desires, goals, better than they do and sooner – maybe they'll hear the thoughts she's flinging with rapid fire and rapt attention.

Although… she better hope not. Maybe. They tend to do the opposite of what she wants, just because they can and because they're pure evil.

He's the only one who has their attention, though, so her silent wishes and her stomach bottoming out mean nothing in the larger picture.

What means something is that, for once, things swing in their favor.

Look, she's generally not big on things like "believing in other people." Especially when they've proven time and again they will choose anything that isn't her, or anything that will directly contradict her and them. She's more of a "see it to believe it" person and—hell.

Standing in the creepy forest that started them all on this unforgiving path, _tied_ to a freaking tree that is one of four that ruined her life (not really – trees don't ruin lives, but they certainly didn't mean anything good for her and them in this case), she changes a little into a believer.

And, once again, Ichabod comes to her rescue. He fights alongside her, he doesn't try to protect or coddle her the way her sister does to make up for past wrongs. It's not a surprise he unties her. It's kind of nice, though, to feel like she can breathe again. They're all _fine_. They've seen the face of hell and they're okay for now.

She doesn't know him all that well. He's always got a thick wall around his true thoughts, and it isn't that he doesn't trust her, but he doesn't share either. She knows her sister has seen him like this, vulnerable and relieved and exhausted. It's a first for her, though, and she realizes he's not immortal. He's always been such a _force_, it was shocking to hear him sound desperate. It's shocking when he brings his hand to her face, once she's loosened, and meets her eyes with a small but reassuring grin.

_We're okay_. _We did it._

_Thank you_.

The lack of words isn't a problem and, though she's aching to check on her sister because she's got some first aid experience and Abbie was _shot_ in the _shoulder_… she knows somehow he's going to take care of it. He'll take care of all of them, even at his own expense.

And he won't flinch to do it, even if he aches inside. He'll take care of everyone else first.

Except maybe Hawley because he hates the man. She doesn't need to worry for her sister (she will anyway, but if two is a party, three is a crowd), so she'll worry for the fifth member of their team, the one who isn't here. It'll be one less thing for Crane to take care of, one less sacrifice for him to make when he wants to be here.

Not _here _as a physical location. None of them want to be _here_ like that.

They don't want to keep returning—but return they will until the task is complete, and nothing is complete yet.

It's on the verge of beginning, like always. For now she can leave and it won't be the end of the world. You know, literally.

* * *

><p>Abbie sees him finally exhale as he starts tugging on the roots holding her to the tree. There's some symbolism, she thinks, in their locations. She's tied to the burnt remains of the second tree – blood. Crane was tied to the charcoal remains that ushered in an army. Why he unties his wife first when <em>Katrina's<em> tree was the one that would literally usher in Moloch's reign – making Katrina's safety the most vital and her position the least tenuous because her tree hadn't been on fire – isn't as clear as the Biblical symbolism she's about ready to choke on.

Until she gets a good look at him. He's _exhausted_. She knows as soon as she meets his eyes that he saved her for last to untie for selfish reasons. He won't have to pull away from her comfort or his undoubtedly thorough checking of her welfare to rescue anyone else. He untied Katrina first because, though he feels obligated to maintain her safety, he doesn't want to deal with her right now. He and Katrina have centuries of secrets, burdens, lies, and separation. That can't be easy.

Their friendship, though, they've kept it clean. Disagreements resolved quickly, measured silences, honesty always… although it's a far different sort of bond, it's easier. It's a place to seek refuge and solace because they always have each other's backs.

Except, you know, when he was begging Henry to kill him.

Or arguing passionately against her own attempt at self-sacrifice.

The first thing she does once she's loose (besides let the throb in her injured shoulder register because _damn_) is swing her good arm, making contact with his. He frowns and brings his hand up.

"_Ow,"_ he protests, scowling. His voice is rough, from yelling and upset and then disuse.

They've been through a lot today.

"'Take me instead' is_ not _what we discussed!" She protests. "It's bad enough Captain Irving died on our watch tonight! You do _not_ get to leave me here to deal with this mess by myself."

Somewhere in there, she knows there's actual concern for him. She can feel it, every time she looks at him. He's overloaded and messy and he has _no_ idea how to handle it. Probably. She's guessing.

He doesn't argue, though. For once. It may be the only time. Instead, he pulls her against him with force and very nearly collapses against her. She can only get the arm she used to hit him around his waist and over his back, partly because of the ache in her shoulder and partly because he just pinned her injured arm to her side with the intensity of the embrace.

"You okay, there?" Her voice is tinged with amusement, but it's a cover. She's asking and she's interested in the answer, considering his face is turned toward her neck and he's breathing her in.

"_You_ are. That's all I care about just now," he counters. "It's all that matters."

_Sounds about right. Doesn't really seem to give a shit about himself._ That's her job. She's distantly aware Katrina is watching them, too, and she knows the responsibility falls on both of them. He's just rejecting Katrina's care right now. They haven't had time to get into the whys and where-fors, what with the potential ushering of the apocalypse that was happening.

At least they have their priorities straight.

"Miss Jenny is well, she's left to check on Hawley, I presume," he says, finally backing away, but keeping his hand on her never the less. She knows he's rattled because he's normally not so attached. "Katrina's…"

"_Crane_," she says quietly, but firmly. "Stop worrying about all of us. You have some big things to deal with." She thinks back to his sadness over Caroline's death, his confusion about his wife—and how he attempted processing it. "Let's hash it out over a beer."

The weariness creasing his face is tempered by his uncertain scowl. "I…"

"It means we're gonna go talk," she says, stepping away from him enough she can really look around. It's much darker in the woods this time of night without a demon lighting things on fire and making loud, growly orders. She doesn't see anything that needs to come with them. (Except maybe his wife.) "Henry took the sword." She purses her lips thoughtfully. "Tomorrow's problem." She flicks her eyes up to him. "Maybe you were right about him."

He nods. "Perhaps. It remains to be seen, I suppose, but I'm definitely not giving up now." He glances away for a split second, careful not to look toward Katrina, effectively changing the subject for now. She won't let him get away with that too many more times. "You need medical attention, Lieutenant."

"You mean there's not an app for that?"

His smirk is a welcome sight.

"Well, I _do_ have a copy of William Buchan's _Domestic Medicine_ at the cabin, courtesy of Miss Jenny. Perhaps I can find something useful in there."

Although her loyalty lies with Crane, obviously, she glances at Katrina and uses her head to motion an invitation to get the hell out of here. She _hates_ this place and the less time she spends in it, the better. Katrina's been watching their quiet exchange intently and follows. For his part, Crane waits for his wife to fall in step.

Abbie has no idea what to make of it, of them, or this crazy journey they're on. One beer isn't going to cover it.

"Let me guess," she quips. "You worked with him for a while, too, in a short, ill-fated attempt to become a leading physician? You got _around_."

He snorts. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. His tone is lighter and, whether it should or not, it feels like an accomplishment. "He was from Scotland. I received his book from Abigail Adams—speaking of _getting around_, though…"

Her jaw drops and she gasps as he nearly calls John Adams' wife a slut. He never actually would, but the implication was clear. He just chuckles at her reaction.

For all the shifting and switching that happened, even just moments ago, she knows at least one thing. They can joke, they can move forward, they can stick together. They can triumph, they can sacrifice, and they can rally.

Despite their horrible realizations, that it might be their lives to save the world, it feels strange now as they walk back toward… Who knows? She has no idea where the motorcycle ended up. Her Jeep doesn't exactly work post-lightning strike. That wasn't covered in the safety specs.

Anyway, it feels strange. It feels solid and real. It feels like they just might make this work.

It feels an awful lot like _hope_.


End file.
